


Seasons

by goddessofcruelty



Series: Wine and Song [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek is Native American, Derek is a blacksmith, Frottage, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Gore, Period-Typical Racism, References to Catholicism, Stiles Talks Too Much, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:12:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofcruelty/pseuds/goddessofcruelty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek returned to scraping the wood branch, and silence reigned once more until he lifted his head once again, studying Stiles. “Cobb's Legion.” </p>
<p>Stiles' hand shook and he nearly dropped his coffee as he paled. “Lord Almighty, you're a Rebel.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Civil War Era AU. Derek was a blacksmith for the South. Stiles is a Union officer from Michigan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Derek as some sort of hermit and Stiles stumbles across him

Derek Hale wasn't a deserter.

He was never really in the war in the first place. He didn't care about the cause.

Derek joined the army because that's where the work was. He shod horses for the officers, made wagons and wheels, knives and daggers, and sometimes helped the gunsmiths.

He learned a lot. And Derek never got too close to the fighting, though he had been conscripted a few times to hold men down when the doc needed to amputate. Few men were as strong as the blacksmith.

But when they burned Atlanta, when he learned that his whole family was lost, all dead except his uncle, who had been hurt so severely in a explosion that he wasn't expected to last, when that news came, it broke him.

He cried in front of the other smiths, but he wasn't the only one to be so unmanned.

When he had recovered himself, Derek went to his tent and then his forge and packed everything that belonged to him.

And he walked away.

-

Derek walked for weeks, stopping only for food and rest, in a direct line away from the battlefield, until he came across an abandoned cabin deep in the forest. He watched it for days until he was certain no one was coming back to claim it.

Then he made it his home.

For a little over a month, the former smith was content and cozy in his little cabin away from it all. He found an overgrown garden in the back, the well was clean and clear, and their were plenty of deer and rabbit in the forest to keep him fed.

Derek was just beginning to think he was safe.

Then one day he opened his door to see a Union officer leaning against a tree right in front of his door. Derek's rifle was in his hands, pointed unerringly straight at the younger man's heart before he'd ever realized.

The officer lifted his hands, amber eyes wide as he paled. “Please do not shoot. I'm not much of a threat to you, sir. I find myself in need of assistance, medical assistance to be precise, as I was injured on the battlefield. Shot. Twice, as a matter of fact, though the leg wound feels marginally improved. The side, I'm afraid, though, that is causing me no small amount of difficulty. I would be most grateful of the Christian kindness of some warmth and maybe a hint of sustenance...”

Derek couldn't believe the man had said all that without taking a breath. He wasn't sure what to do, and hesitated in the doorway. Then the man's eyes rolled back in his head and his knees buckled. Derek had taken the step forward and caught him before he realized what he was doing.

Derek scowled down at the Northern man's stupid handsome face. He had a sinking feeling that this officer had just ruined everything.

Growling under his breath, Derek lifted him easily. He seemed skin and bones and the former smith wondered how long he'd gone without food. Carefully, Derek laid him out in the table, resting a hand on the sweat dampened forehead. He was definitely running a fever.

Looks like Derek wasn't hunting today.

Muttering under his breath, he stomped off to get some fresh water from the well.

-

He'd removed the man's outer clothing, shoving the Union uniform deep under the bed. Derek had no wish to be reminded of those that burned his family.

He'd washed the leg wound and re-bound it, as the man said, it looked to be healing cleanly. The side, however, it was infected, swollen and leaking, with angry red streaks extending along the torso. Derek only had a rough grasp of field medicine, but he couldn't leave it be.

Painstakingly, Derek used a sharpened knife, heated over the fire, to cut away the obviously diseased flesh, soothing the officer with soft shushing sounds when he muttered in his delirium. Then he poured some of his carefully hoarded whiskey over the wound, pressing the man's shoulders back down as he jerked and cried out for someone. Sounded like 'Lydia'. _Probably his girl back home._

For a moment Derek felt lucky that he didn't have a girl to miss him. Kate had run off North, back to her family, when the war began, leaving him a letter. He still had it, though some was surely unreadable by now. She had apparently stopped by Indiana and got herself a divorce. He had that paper too.

He had both of them memorized. His childhood friend Isaac (who had some schooling and could read as well as anybody, but had to drop out to help his dad) had read them to him over and over, as many times as Derek had asked. He was dead now, another casualty of this stupid war, him and Boyd (the son of the free man who helped Derek's dad), and Erica (Isaac's twin sister), all killed by the Union.

Those like this man dying in front of him.

By all rights, Derek should throw him out and let him die. For nothing else than revenge for his friends, for his family.

Derek just felt like there had been enough death.

So he lifted the sword that had been heating in the fire, and pressed it against the wound. The sizzling sound was eclipsed by the scream that tore from the officer before he passed out completely, and Derek gagged at the smell of burning flesh that filled the room.

Gritting his teeth, Derek pulled the blade away, poured more alcohol over the wound and bandaged it up as best he could. Then he stumbled through the doorway and fell to the ground heaving up his breakfast.

-

Stiles slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times at the cabin ceiling which was obviously not the tent that he'd been living in for his past two years in the Union Army.

Slowly the memories came back to him.

The battle. He'd been at Petersburg with Grant. He remembered the pain of being shot. His horse had panicked, ran and he'd been unable to control it.

Somewhere he'd lost the horse. Stiles couldn't recall. He'd found some early berries and some forgotten ears of corn, and then ran across a squirrel's hoard of acorns.

Carefully, Stiles extended his hurt leg and was pleased to feel little to no pain there.

His side was not so well healed. When he experimentally tried to move it, he felt the pull of the wound and then hissed as pain blossomed along his side. Gritting his teeth, Stiles carefully peeled back the covers and eyed the bandages. They were clean.

Who? His eyes darted until he saw the man sleeping on the ground. Yes, that was the visage that he'd seen framed in the light of a doorway just before he'd lost his grip on the world. He recalled saying something, but what that was Stiles could not bring to mind.

Stiles decided that it couldn't have been too off-putting, otherwise he would not have found himself in such circumstances.

Looking further beneath the ragged quilt, he was embarrassed to see that he was clad in nothing but his small-clothes. His uniform must have been ruined, along with his long underwear.

Hardly the greatest of his problems, but one it seems his brain was determined to focus on.

To distract himself, Stiles studied the man who had rescued him. The Union officer's first impression was of largeness, though upon a second perusal, he concluded that they would be not dissimilar in height. Breadth, however, the other man had the advantage. Even under the coverlet of animal furs, Stiles could see the man was exceptionally muscled such as he had only seen in regards to the farrier that shod his horse.

_Strength that could lift him easily._

Stiles felt himself flush all over as that thought lent himself to several interesting scenarios, which in turn caused him to curse his malformed heart. He knew that he shouldn't think such things, and he had spent his entire life asking forgiveness. Stiles did so once again, closing his eyes and praying to his God for absolution for his deviancy.

When he opened them again, eyes the same shade of green as the pendant that Lydia always flaunted were staring at him.

Stiles smiled softly at the man and licked his lips before he spoke. The eyes followed the movement.

“I expect this would be the time to express my gratitude for your assistance in preserving my longevity. I was sore hurt it seems, and you have done what seemed to be the impossible.” Stiles carefully shifted himself, grunting when the pain flared again.

“It would be remiss of me not to take this opportunity to introduce myself. Stilinski is my surname, and given that my Christian name is veritably unpronounceable by American tongues, most call me Stiles.” Stiles tilted his head at the taciturn man, one long-fingered hand indicating the man's face.

“I'm assuming by the length of beard covering your chin that there are no razors to be found hereabouts, but if I am mistaken and there are, it would be a great kindness to be able to shave my admittedly sparse but supremely itchy whiskers.” Stiles paused and looked around.

“Speaking of hereabouts, where might that be? I'm uncertain even of the direction that my feverish wanderings took me.”

The man simply stared at him, looking somewhat poleaxed. Then he shook his head and grunted, rising from the floor and padding to the fire. He poured water from a well bucket into a coffeepot and set it to boil.

As the scent of coffee filled the air, Stiles sniffed appreciatively and flashed a smile at the black-haired man.

-

Derek had woken up to see the officer gazing at him in a way that made him feel odd inside. And then he'd started talking. And kept talking. Derek blinked a few times, not even awake enough to register anything the man was saying. He needed coffee to deal with this. So he put some on, and then turned to see that smile that lit up the entire room, and Derek needed to get out of the cabin right now.

So he left. He went and took a dip in the ice cold river which both woke him up and cleared his head.

By the time he came back, the coffee was done and he was feeling armored enough to deal with his extremely talkative house guest.

Stiles didn't say a word, just watched him intently, like he could read Derek like people read books. His hands though were never still, tapping against his legs, twisting in the bed-cover, pulled up to his lips to gnaw at his nails, just constant movement.

Derek drank a full cup of coffee before he turned to Stiles.

“Derek,” he said gruffly, his voice rusty from months of disuse.

Stiles' eyes widened and then he flashes that brilliant smile again. “Derek!” He repeated the name with so much pleasure, Derek nearly shivered. Instead, he glowered and lifted up his one and only mug.

“Coffee?”

Stiles nodded so hard that his head was like to fall off. Derek poured and handed the cup to him, Stiles thanking him graciously, and then the smith backed off the the chair in the corner of the room. He pulled out a long piece of wood and started scraping the bark from it with a knife he'd made himself, a lifetime ago.

Derek managed to focus on that for a few minutes until he heard a noise coming from Stiles that made a spark of lightning shoot down his spine. He gaped up at Stiles, who met his eyes and blushed a bit. “I haven't had coffee since Gettysburg. Like nectar of the gods, friend Derek. You have made this Midwestern boy sore glad today.”

Derek went back to the piece of wood, stripping the entire thing before he looked back up at Stiles, nearly an hour later. He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. The man would have to know sooner or later.

“I was at Gettysburg.”

Stiles' eyes widened over the empty mug that he'd been holding, and Derek put aside the woodworking to fetch it from him and refill the cup. And not because he wanted to hear that sound from between those plush lips again. No, he just wanted to help the younger man.

Stiles breathed in the aroma appreciatively, but to Derek's disappointment, did not make filthy noises over it again.

“After I graduated the academy, I was granted a commission for 24th Michigan, myself and my best friend McCall, given that we were from thereabouts. We were so proud to have been part of the Iron Brigade, such a strong history. And then he was killed in battle.” Stiles looked down into his coffee, lost for a moment in mourning his losses. “We grew up together, the only two Catholics in town. His family was an amalgam of Spanish and Irish. My grandparents came from Poland to settle outside Fort Detroit back before it was truly settled.”

Derek returned to scraping the wood branch, and silence reigned once more until he lifted his head once again, studying Stiles.

“Cobb's Legion.”

Stiles' hand shook and he nearly dropped his coffee as he paled. “Lord Almighty, you're a Rebel.”

Derek might have been secretly amused at the dramatic reaction, as if he had changed from the rescuing hero in a half-second. Outwardly, his kept his face stoic as he rose to bring the stick over to Stiles, laying it alongside the officer's leg in silence, while said man's mouth opened and closed.

It reminded Derek of the bigmouth catfish he'd sometimes caught in the rivers back home.

“Family burned with Atlanta.”

He was proud of the way that came out without a waver, and then reached for the old flour sacks that were in a pile next to the bed. He folded all eight of them in four and the wrapped then around the top part of the piece of wood, where he'd whittled it flat. Securing it with a firm knot, he handed it to Stiles.

“War's over for me.” He grunted and then turned away from Stiles and headed out the front door.

-

Stiles sat silently for a long time after Derek left. He didn't know why Derek had saved him and not shot him on sight, but he had. He'd tended Stiles and doctored him and fed him, and now he'd spent an entire afternoon making him a crutch.

Stiles Stilinski didn't know what to think. Other than the fact that he was hardly repaying the other's kindness with the type of thoughts that were running through his mind.

He spent some time saying his rosary best he could from memory, and then gingerly moved himself into a position where he could use the crutch to lift himself from the bed.

Derek had carried him to the outhouse before, a situation that had been embarrassing for several reasons.

Now though, Derek had given him his freedom to move back.

_Or he's tired of having to touch me._

Stiles limped his way out to take care of business, then propped himself against a tree. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the bark and just listened, the way he used to do when he was a boy. Stiles could hear the faint wind through the trees, the warmth of it so different than this time of year back home. In Michigan, there would still be snow squalls occasionally, interspersed with copious amounts of rain.

Here, though, spring was in full bloom. Stiles heard birds twittering to seek out mates, the buzz of insects, the rush of the river that was not too far off. It was peaceful and his spirit, damaged from the chaos of war, soaked it up as benediction.

-

In the three days since he's seen Derek, Stiles has found his uniform and washed it, found a teeny-tiny root cellar – also beneath the bed, and expanded the garden. He's also found Derek's satchel hidden behind the rocking chair but he hasn't looked through it yet. He decided to give it a full week before he invades his host's privacy.

He's kneeling in the garden when Derek appears through the trees. Stiles finds himself amazed that such a large man can move so silently. Derek drops two packages besides Stiles on the ground, and then a newspaper on top of that.

“War's over for you too.”

Derek goes into the cabin, leaving Stiles with the paper. He's grateful at first to just know what the day is, or thereabouts. Nearly Easter looks like, and he felt a pang of guilt that he'd not been keeping up with his Sundays and fast days. Soon as he spoke with Derek, he'd get his days straight, but until then, Stiles made a note to add on to his nightly prayers.

Stiles sets back on his heels as he scans the paper. The war was over – and someone had shot the President.

Stiles found his eyes spiking with unshed tears. He'd seen the man a handful of times, had felt proud to cast his vote for a Midwestern boy, and Stiles thought Lincoln had been the best man he could under the circumstances.

Carefully he sets the paper aside. He would read more after supper.

The other two packages turn out to be clothing. A new set of long underwear and a shirt. Stiles shakes his head at the unexpected largesse. He still could not figure out Derek's kindnesses.

As quickly as he's able, Stiles finishes pulling weeds, and levers himself upright, scooping his packages. He can smell what seems to be a good, hearty stew as he limps into the cabin.

“It seems I am to offer you yet more gratitude of the verbal nature, as I've nothing with which to repay you for your kindnesses. The clothing was much needed, though I do fear it's the reading material that has truly warmed my heart.” Stiles chuckles as he carefully changes into the long underwear, pulling on his uniform pants over them.

“One would not think it who had known me in my schoolboy days, always aching for the freedom of the forests outside. It wasn't until Scott fell ill that I began to appreciate the wonder of the written word, for I would spend hours reading adventures to him from various texts.”

Derek grunted when Stiles expressed his thanks and then turned his head with his brows furrowed as the conclusion of his little speech.

“You read good?”

Stiles blinks again, on the verge of arrogance, something like, Of _course_ I read _well_ , and then he realizes that Derek probably can't, and finds his immediate offense diffusing.

Instead, Stiles nods softly as he settles onto the bed. “Yes, I'd like to think so.”

Derek frowns for a moment, switching from foot to foot, almost anxiously, then seems to make a decision. He turns and digs into where he has his satchel hidden. He pulls out three books and two very worn pieces of paper.

He hands the pieces of paper to Stiles.

“Read these to me.”

It's not a request, but with what Derek has given him, Stiles cannot refuse. He treats the paper just as tenderly as Derek had, gently smoothing it open, and begins to read.

-

After dinner, Stiles continues reading to Derek. He reads the newspaper cover to cover, and if he cries at the President's death again, well, Derek doesn't make comment.

By Derek's count, today is a Thursday, and so Stiles tentatively asks him if he knows how to catch fish. By the way he wrinkles his nose, which Stiles does _not_ think is the most attractive thing he's ever seen because that would be completely wrong of him, he gathers that Derek is not a fan of fish.

Stiles explains, or at least tries to explain, that he can't eat meat on Fridays, but he's not certain Derek understands.

“Been doing it for weeks.”

“Yes and I will do penance for that presently, however I do need to incur no new infractions and rather than abstaining from flesh altogether, I find fish an acceptable alternative.”

Derek rolls his eyes and mutters something about “white men” underneath his breath.

Stiles' eyes narrow sharply and Derek seems to realize his mistake, for he returns the look with a glower and stomps off outside.

But Stiles' mind is now working and he begins to understand the way that Derek lives, the reason that he can blend with the forest. He must have some white blood in him, however, because no Indian that Stiles has ever heard of can grow a beard.

Stiles knows his war history, knows that in Georgia there were those natives who had chosen to stay, to give up their wild ways when the Creek uprising had failed. Derek's family must have been among them. Apparently, he'd only learned just enough to get by.

Stiles wondered if Derek had ever even been inside a church.

_He probably isn't even baptized._ Stiles felt a moment of horror for Derek's soul. Maybe Stiles had been sent here to save him. 

Stiles lifted his crutch and levered himself up, limping to the door and watching Derek as he chopped wood for their fire. 

Yes, that's exactly what Stiles was going to do. He would save Derek just as he'd been saved.


	2. Chapter 2

Spring passes into summer, and Stiles tries to draw Derek out, not particularly successfully.

They don't talk about the war. Derek doesn't talk much at all about anything.

In the mornings they share coffee, and then Derek goes about his chores while Stiles tends the garden. It's not easy with his wounds but it does take his focus. If Derek is nearby, Stiles talk about his days at the Academy, of his childhood back in the wilds of Michigan with Scott. If Derek is out hunting or gone to town, Stiles talks to himself. He recites poetry and Shakespeare to the birds.

One day he's partway through Othello when he sees Derek listening, leaning on a tree and just staring. Stiles trails off as the gaze of those green eyes make him flush warmly. He looks down and digs at a few weeds, hoping that Derek takes it as embarrassment, and not what it is.

It seems to work, for the former smith comes closer and tilts his head, considering Stiles for a long moment before speaking.

“If after every tempest come such calms, may the winds blow till they have wakened death.”

Stiles can't help it. His jaw drops and he stares up at Derek. He splutters with questions. He knows Derek can barely read, has little to no education, has been effectively mute... and then he goes and quotes Shakespeare flawlessly.

Derek goes into the cabin and returns with one of the three books that Stiles had only seen a glimpse of the once. He drops it in Stiles' lap. It is, indeed, a printed copy of Othello. Stiles runs his clean thumb along the spine and arches his neck to look up at Derek.

Derek's gaze traces his neck and then looks down at him with so much intensity that Stiles feels pinned in place by it. They stay like that for what seems like forever, before Derek clears his throat and looks away. “Were 'citing it wrong.”

He disappears in to the forest once again.

After dinner, Stiles reads from it to him, using different voices for each of the characters and acting out the movements as best he could. Derek is entranced.

After a fair amount of prodding, Stiles gets Derek to tell him about the time that he and his best friend Isaac had snuck into a showing. Isaac had fallen asleep, but Derek had memorized every word.

“From just the once? That's amazing!”

Derek shrugs a shoulder. “Boyd could read some. Got this from the library dump for me. Last Christmas 'fore..” He shrugged again and trailed off. _Before the war._

It's the first time Stiles has heard anyone's name except for Derek's ex-wife's from his former life. He hesitates, but his curiosity was greater than his sense of tact.

“Boyd is a friend of yours?”

“Was.”

Stiles swears to himself. _Well that's the end of that conversation topic._

Derek surprises him. “Da had a freeman, worked the bellows. Me n Boyd grew up together.”

Stiles arches a brow. “A free man.”

Derek correctly interprets the skepticism in his voice and stiffens in his seat, pointing his whittling knife at Stiles. “Never knowed anyone rich enough for slaves. Only difference 'tween me n Boyd was that I could pass for white most times.”

Stiles wisely refrains from continuing on that avenue of discussion. “Just the two of you, then? You and Boyd?”

Derek shakes his head softly. “Was Isaac and Erica too. Four of us, wild as wind.” His brief moment of introspection fades and he turns back to his woodcarving. “All dead now 'cept me.”

Stiles can't get anything but grunts from Derek for the rest of the night.

-

In the morning, Stiles asks Derek to bring some water from the river for the garden. Rain hasn't fallen for nearly a week and the plants are suffering. He waters them well because tomorrow is Sunday.

Derek hasn't stopped rolling his eyes when Stiles refuses to do anything on Sundays. He goes about his regular chores while Stiles sings through all the hymns that he can remember, and then recites bible passages in Latin, then in English.

Derek remembers massive meetings and revivalist camps when he thinks of the white religion. His family had gone to a few, just enough to fit in. They had learned the rote responses when people asked, and then they honored their ancestors when no one else was looking.

Sunday evening, Stiles tries to talk to Derek about his beliefs. He tells Derek about the Great Flood. Derek laughs.

Stiles is nonplussed. He realizes that this is the first time Derek has laughed. He also realizes that Derek is radiant when he laughs. That smile goes straight to Stiles' heart and makes itself home there.

After a second of introspection, Stiles realizes that Derek is talking. Reciting actually. His eyes widen as he hears a flood myth eerily similar to the one he knows. He listens silently, watching Derek as he finishes and goes outside to relieve himself.

He has never asked Derek what he believes.

Stiles lays awake that night, thinking long after dark.

-

He doesn't bring it up again, though he continues with his Sundays.

There is still no rain, and the creek is getting smaller. They only wash once a week, saving everything they can for the garden.

Row by row, Stiles' plants die. Its so hot that Derek wears less and less. Its so hot that Stiles doesn't react to it.

It's six weeks of unrelenting heat later when Derek suddenly pushes open the door and steps outside.

“Derek?” Stiles looks up to see him just standing in the dirt. He is looking off to the west.

Stiles lifts himself with the crutch, though he doesn't need it most days, and joins him.

“Derek, what is it?” He whispers, though he has no idea why.

The bigger man points to the sky in northwest. Stiles lifts his gaze and sees dark clouds.

“Derek?”

He shakes his head and shushes Stiles. Together they stand in silence and watch the storm roll in.

The wind picks up, and the temperature drops. Stiles takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, feeling nothing but relief at the break from the heat.

And then he feels a tiny drop of wetness. And then another, and then the skies open and release.

“Derek. Derek, it's raining!”

Derek grins and lifts his face to the heavens. Stiles whoops and throws his arms out. Derek picks him up around the waist and twirls him around before pulling him in close.

Stiles automatically wraps his legs around Derek's waist, arms around his neck, and then their lips are pressing together.

After a half-second Stiles realizes and his eyes fly open wide and he pulls back, but Derek simply _looks_ at him, still holding him tightly.

Stiles tentatively leans back in, hovering between terrified and elated, and gingerly touches his lips to Derek's again.

Derek lets him, doesn't move except to return the pressure, for about five seconds, then he lifts his hand to the back of Stiles' head, cradling it as he pushed in for a more demanding kiss.

Stiles parts his lips and Derek's tongue slides across them, and then in. Stiles rocks his hips, feeling his body reacting as he twines his tongue with the older man's.

When they pull apart, Derek looks at him like he's the most wonderful thing that he'd ever seen. Stiles heart constricts and then he turns his face up to the rain.

“We should go inside.” He has to yell over the sound of the storm. Derek nods to show that he heard.

And then he _carries_ Stiles inside, just like that.

Derek sets Stiles carefully on the bed, gently pulling off his wet clothes. He grabs a dry blanket and wraps it around the younger man, carefully patting away every drop of water, like Stiles is a precious gifts, and he can't. He just can't look at Derek worshiping him.

Stiles closes his eyes, and keeps them closed when soft kisses trace along his shoulder where it has slipped free of the blanket. He takes in a soft breath as the lips find his neck, unconsciously arching towards Derek. The smith presses one more kiss on that pale white neck, and then pulls away.

Stiles makes a noise of protest and opens his eyes, to see Derek grabbing the washtub and their well bucket and dragging them outside. Stiles can't decide if he's impressed at Derek's practicality, or frustrated with it.

Stiles watches the muscles of Derek's arms and back shift as he brings in the firewood, piling it against the wall near the door. He builds up the fire a bit, and then hands Stiles' wet clothing over the nearby chair to dry.

Stiles is just about to say something when Derek finally slides from his wet breeches, draping them next to the others. He allows himself to look openly, gaze traveling hungrily over Derek. His heart leaps when Derek strides towards him, and Stiles shrugs the blanket down and reaches for him.

This time the clash of mouths isn't gentle or tender, it's almost violent with need. Derek presses Stiles backwards, hovering over him as they continue to kiss. Derek nips at the other man's lower lip, and Stiles gasps in surprise at how that little stab of pain heightens all the other sensations.

Derek is already moving, kissing along Stiles' jaw and then lavishing attention on his neck. He makes a pleased rumbling sound when he pulls his head back at the marks there, and Stiles shivers beneath him. Derek trails his lips down Stiles' chest, kissing each mole, laving his tongue across both nipples in their turn. Stiles finds time to wonder how such a big man can be so gentle, before every thought is driven out of his head when he feels Derek mouth wrap around his stiffened length.

A string of colorful language bursts from Stiles, and he can _feel_ Derek's smug amusement. He upwards reflexively, and Derek coughs, pulling back, then wraps his massive hands around Stiles' hips to hold him down.

Derek's cheeks hollow as he sucks and Stiles swears again, curling his hands in the bed covers.

“Derek..” His voice is a hoarse whisper, and Stiles doesn't even know what he's trying to say, but Derek slides his mouth free, nodding as if he understands.

Derek kneels back, licking his hand and then sliding it over his own erection. Stiles watches with wide eyes as his hand moves back and forth, mesmerized.

Derek's eyes glaze and his breath hitches and then he stops, climbing forward onto Stiles once again. Stiles feels like he should be doing _something_ but this is way out of his experience.

Derek slides his cock along Stiles and the younger man's eyes flutter shut because that feels _incredible_. His hands reach to hold on to Derek's broad shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.

Derek wraps a massive hand around both of them, thumb spreading the leaking fluid for lubrication before his hand increases in speed.

Stiles feels a fire burst into bloom in his gut and slowly spread throughout his body. He arches into Derek's grasp, groaning into the cabin's quiet, until he feels just on the edge. He manages a strangled, “Derek,” and then Stiles feels like he's exploding, hot fluid bursting from him and splashing over Derek's chest and stomach.

He clings to Derek as he shudders in the bigger man's grasp, grounded only by the deep sound of Derek's voice.

“Shh, I got ya. Shh.”

His hand continues to moves for three more strokes, and then Derek does the same, pulses his come onto Stiles beneath him, and then collapses to the side. Stiles is still trembling, and Derek wraps his arms around the younger man, pulling him close and planting a soft kiss to his temple as they both fade into a sleepy daze.

It's still raining when Stiles awakens, and he turns his head, craning his neck to watch Derek sleep. And then the enormity of what he's just done hits him and for a second he can't breathe. This is enough to condemn his soul to Hell, and he just needs to get away from the evidence of his sin.

Stiles carefully slides from Derek's grasp, envying him the peaceful rest. He's a heathen and does not comprehend, but Stiles ought to know better, has been taught from a higher moral ground. He stumbles outside, still nude, and stands in the rain, letting it wash him clean. He whispers his prayers to a dark sky.

-

Derek knows.

He expected Stiles to have stopped him much sooner, but he knows what the white god says about these types of relations.

When Stiles came inside, with his shattered soul in his eyes, dripping from the rain once more, Derek handed him the blanket and vanished outside to clean himself. When he returns over an hour later, Stiles is curled on the bed asleep, or at least pretending to be. Derek doesn't bother him, though he's never wanted anything so much as he wants to crawl in with him, hold him all night, see Stiles' face at first light.

Derek sleeps in his usual spot on the floor.

In the morning, he makes coffee like usual, and Stiles seems to gratefully accept the return to normalcy.

They still do their chores together, Stiles still reads or recites after dinner, he still tries to get Derek to talk about his life before the war.

But Derek knows.

He can see that Stiles is pushing himself, pushing his recovery like he hasn't before. He walks for longer and longer distances, and one day after dinner Stiles clears his throat.

 _This is it_ , Derek thinks.

He's right.

Stiles speaks at length, but it all boils down to the fact that he's leaving. He has family and friends back home and there's always this _Lydia_ that Derek has never felt brave enough to ask about, and he's leaving.

Derek nods once. He doesn't know what to say.

 _Three days_ , Stiles says, and Derek nods again.

He can hold himself together for that long.

-

The day dawns bright and clear, and Stiles puts on his freshly cleaned clothing and then eats the most filling breakfast that Derek can provide. Derek has packed his satchel with some travel food for Stiles, a few coins that he had to spare, a wolf that he's whittled out of wood, and the slim volume of Shakespeare. He gives Stiles his rifle and the few bullets he has left.

Stiles tries to protest but Derek is firm.

When the moment comes, Stiles shifts from foot to foot awkwardly and then tentatively offers Derek a hug.

Derek can't deny him. He wraps his arms around Stiles tightly and holds on to him, desperately trying to memorize this feeling.

When Stiles pushes back, Derek lets him go.

Derek watches until Stiles is long out of sight. He hopes Stiles' god watches over him.

-

Derek thinks about Stiles often in the first few weeks after he leaves. Everything reminds him.

He hugs the bedclothes at night because they smell like Stiles. He fishes on Fridays and recites Othello in his head.

Rainy days are the worst.

Eventually, Derek notices that the days are getting shorter. Summer is drawing to an end.

He busies himself with preparations for the winter. Derek is fortunate to come across a wild pig and manages to bring it down with only a few scratches, and smokes the meat over the course of a week. He harvests Stiles' garden and secures the bounty in the tiny root cellar beneath the bed.

Derek makes a trip into the closest town to trade animal skins for coffee.

Every cup reminds him of Stiles.

-

On the winter solstice Derek brings out the bottle of whiskey that he's been saving and drinks it all. He sends a wish out to the stars that Stiles is alive, that he made it home safely, and that he's happy and well.

He spends the next day in bed.

After that Derek refuses to let himself think about Stiles any more. He makes it through the winter and into the spring without too many relapses.

He ignores the fact that it's now been a year since Stiles appeared at his door.

Derek doesn't replant the garden.

-

He's out chopping wood when three men dressed in Army uniforms stomp through the forest. Derek sets down his axe and leans on it, trying not to appear threatening. He wonders if he's about to be arrested for deserting.

“This your place?”

Derek turns to look at the cabin a minute. He supposes it is.

“Who's askin'?

Turns out the army's clearing land for a railroad to go in. Derek takes their money and doesn't look back.

He heads west, for no particular reason, other than others are going that way.

Derek goes to Texas for a while, drifts to Kansas, and ends up in a small town in California called Beacon Hills.

For some reason, this place feels like home, and so he stops wandering.

The local smith is older and is in need of a journeyman. Derek shows him what he can do, and finds himself gainfully employed.

He is still as much of a recluse as ever. Derek doesn't speak to anyone but the smith, and the matron who runs the town's store.

She invites him to something new every time he comes in for supplies. She tries especially hard when its a mixer or some other event where he might meet someone. She says things like, “You're too young to be a confirmed bachelor.” He makes the mistake of telling her he was married once.

The master smith regales him with stories of how he's being portrayed as a young widower pining over his lost wife. She's not far wrong. Women stop by with things they make for Derek. He gives them to the smith and his wife.

There's only one thing he wants.

-

Derek's been in Beacon Hills nearly three years now. He's thinking about that when the smith comes into the back to tell him that he has a visitor.

Derek wonders which widow it is this time.

He steps through the doorway that separates the shop from the forge and stops dead in his tracks.

Derek can't move, can't breathe.

Because it's _Stiles_.

He's older, filled out instead of too skinny like Derek remembers, and his clothes are the finest fabrics Derek's ever seen.

But Stiles could be eighty and wrinkled and Derek would know him.

Derek doesn't know what to do or say, until a movement catches his eye, and his gaze turns down to see a little boy tugging on Stiles' sleeve.

The hope that had been fluttering is crushed. Of course. Just a vicious quirk of fate that brought Stiles and his _family_ here.

Stiles crouches down and talks to the boy softly, then grabs his hand and tugs him forward.

“Christopher, this is your father.”

Derek blinks. _What?_

Stiles fixes those eyes on him. “Derek, this is your son. Christopher Isaac Argent.”

Argent. _Kate._ Oh.

Derek still doesn't know what to say. He copies Stiles, crouching down like he had and looking into his son's – _his son!_ \- eyes. They are Derek's own eyes, framed by Kate's golden curls.

“Hello.” Derek offers the boy a smile.

The boy blinks and then tilts his head. “My mom's dead.”

Derek blinks back. “Uh. Oh. 'm sorry?”

The boy shrugs. “Grandpa Gerard says that missing her is weakness.”

Derek feels a rush of infuriated protectiveness. “Do I look weak?”

Little Christopher eyes his muscular form and shakes his head.

“Well, I miss her too.” It's not really a lie. He has missed sharing his life with someone. He did have that with Kate for a while.

The boy throws his arms around Derek's neck and the smith scoops him up and holds him tightly. He's not ashamed to be crying.

-

They sit down to dinner at the house that Derek built himself, and he can see Stiles noticing that he made it with more room than a single man would need.

Stiles doesn't say anything until Chris has been put to bed.

He brings a bottle of scotch from his things and pours them both a glass. He tells Derek how he made it home to find his father had passed. The sadness shines in his eyes and makes Derek want to kiss it away, but he doesn't know if he's allowed, doesn't know what _this_ is yet.

Stiles had sold everything and went to visit Scott's mother. While he was out East, he'd run into Lydia. Derek gave Stiles a penetrating gaze as he heard that name. Stiles was looking into the fire and didn't notice.

Lydia was living with her friend Allison and helping her take care of her nephew. Lydia happily told Stiles all about the boy. It wasn't until she mentioned the scandal of his mother's divorce that Stiles had put everything together.

Lydia's father-in-law was a lawyer. He helped with the paperwork.

Stiles became guardian of Derek's son.

Stiles looked at Derek, eyes shimmering with tears. “We've been searching for you for a long time.”

Derek set his glass down. “Found me.” He starts to reach out to Stiles, then hesitates, uncertain.

Stiles rushes into his arms so fast that his chair falls to the floor. Neither of them notice.

They kiss until they have to pull apart to breathe, and Derek rests his forehead against Stiles.

“Stiles, I...” Derek trails off, he doesn't know what to say.

Stiles laughs, a soft huff of breath against Derek's lips. “Then must you speak, of one that loved not wisely but too well.”

Derek closes his eyes a moment then pulls back and looks up.

“I love you.”

A tear slips down Stiles' cheek.

“Derek Hale, I have loved you for a very long time.”

Derek stands, still holding Stiles in his arms, and takes him to their bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration: Foolish Games by Jewel
> 
> Please let me know if I need to tag anything else. <3
> 
> [Tumblr](http://goddessofcruelty.tumblr.com/)


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